The Lion, the Whizkid, and the Wardrobe
by Gene's Gilly
Summary: When a house-raid goes wrong, Sam and Gene are trapped. In a wardrobe. Pure fluff! Sam/Gene implied.


There were better ways to spend a Sunday afternoon, reflected Gene Hunt sourly, than sitting in a wardrobe

**The Lion, the Whiz-kid and the Wardrobe**

**Summary:** When a house-raid goes wrong, Sam and Gene are trapped. In a wardrobe. Pure fluff! Sam/Gene implied.

**Disclaimers:** Naturally I own neither Gene _et al_, nor LoM/A2A: they belong to Kudos and the BBC, alas...

**Acknowledgements:** Thanks to leakybiro for mischievous suggestions, including the title.

**A/N:** No small furry animals were harmed during the writing of this fic. Honest. Set some time after the end of LoM series 2.

There were better ways to spend a Sunday afternoon, Gene Hunt reflected sourly, than sitting in a wardrobe. Especially when that wardrobe also contained his fidgety DI who, for someone several inches shorter than Gene, took up an inordinate amount of room and seemed in the confined space to have more limbs than any one man should legitimately possess.

"Tyler, will you get your knee out of my ear!" he hissed into the semi-darkness.

His companion shifted a little. "If you get your elbow out of my stomach, maybe – otherwise, no."

Gene tried to move to a more comfortable position, but succeeded only in eliciting a muffled, "Oof!" from Sam.

"What a bloody disaster."

"It'll be a bloody disaster for me if you don't shift your hand, Guv."

"What?" Gene moved again, and this time the 'oof' became a yelp. "Ah – sorry Sammy-boy. Still, everything seems to be in working order."

"It won't be by the time you've finished with it! Get off."

"Thought you might enjoy a bit of the other, Gladys."

"Shut up, Gene."

"What, no sense of adventure?"

"No – shut _up_, Gene!"

"Oh." Once he'd stopped talking, Gene heard the sounds that his sharp-eared colleague had already picked up: the occupants of the house, whose unexpected return had cut short their clandestine – and illegal – search, were coming upstairs. "Shit."

Footsteps and laughter drifted into the room, followed by two people who – even with Gene's restricted view through one of the large old-fashioned keyholes in the wardrobe doors – were obviously sufficiently drunk not to have noticed if a herd of elephants had been hiding there, let alone two skulking detectives. Little squeals of pleasure and the straining of bedsprings combined in a tuneless chorus, and Gene suddenly sank back from where he had manoeuvred himself up to a half-kneeling position. "Oh my God."

"What? What's wrong?"

"Apart from the obvious? They're going to do it! On the bed!"

"Well it's more comfortable than in here."

Sam wriggled around him until he could see through the other keyhole, and Gene felt there wasn't any part of his anatomy that hadn't come into intimate contact with his DI during the course of this investigation. Now, Sam's jeans – dark green, Gene had noted when he came into work, and too tight for anyone's peace of mind – were far nearer his face than he felt strictly at ease with. "Blimey, you're right. So what do we do now?"

"We wait. Unless you want to interrupt?" More squeaks and groans came from the bed.

"I don't believe this," Sam whispered. "What a bloody fiasco – oi!"

"I'm trying to get comfortable here."

"Well you don't have to put your hands on my arse to do it."

"Then make your arse a few sizes smaller, Gladys, or I'll do it again. You couldn't swing a tadpole in here, never mind a cat."

"Well it was your idea to break in while they were away – really clever that turned out to be."

"How was I to know they were still here?"

"It's called intelligence, Gene – something you and yours don't appear to possess."

"You've got an arse like a girl, Tyler."

Sam wriggled in his hands. "I'll take that as a compliment, shall I Guv?"

Gene drew in a sharp breath. Suddenly, there was something else going on in here. Lost for words, he didn't move for a few moments, letting his hands rest where Sam had pushed against them.

Then he heard Sam's cautious voice. "Guv?" He wasn't sure what might lie behind the word, but as sure as eggs were eggs, something else was definitely going on in here. He moved his hands slightly over the taught material covering Sam's buttocks, and felt the heat beating through. And, more importantly, Sam didn't move away. "Gene?"

"Erm..." Gene cleared his throat cautiously, mindful of the certain danger beyond the wardrobe doors, and the possible danger within. He carefully broke contact and, moving slowly and deliberately, put an inch or two between them. He pushed aside a thick fur coat that had become dislodged as they had performed their strange, claustrophobic dance, but another fell down as he did so, smothering his nose and mouth in dead animal and making him gag.

His eyes began to water, and he felt as if he was choking, as a very non-macho allergy kicked in with a vengeance. He flung the offending coat aside, and clutched at Sam, without hesitation this time, burying his face in the younger man's chest to try and conceal his wild spluttering, caring only that their vulnerable hiding place should not be discovered. He felt Sam's hands on his head, holding him in.

He held his breath for as long as humanly possible, and perhaps a little longer, but in the end he had to sneeze. His allergy to small furry creatures – living or dead – was irresistible, and he eventually gave way under its force. Messily, he roared into Sam's shirt front, a muffled explosion of such force that Sam must have thought it was going through his heart and lungs and planned to exit at high speed through his backbone.

He turned his head a little to the side, desperately trying to breathe, snuffing in Sam's rich scent: his body, his aftershave, and his ubiquitous leather jacket. It was a heady, earthy combination, and it made Gene's head spin. The body smelt warm, a midday, lived-in body, masculine and utilitarian; the aftershave was spicy, pungent, something he didn't think he recognised. He took several more breaths just to make sure. The leather was animal and primeval: a smell he awkwardly realised he associated uniquely with his strange, sensitive colleague. It was then that he realised that Sam's fingers were threaded through his hair.

"No need to suffocate me, Tyler!" he grimaced into the soggy shirt. For a moment too long, it seemed, Sam didn't let go. Gene pulled away with all the force possible in the small space, and gasped for air. "Bloody hell," he panted. "After my job, were you?"

"Just trying to keep you quiet."

"Bet you say that to all the girls." The words were out of Gene's mouth before he could put his brain in gear.

"If you say so, Guv," Sam blandly replied. "I hope you're paying for this shirt."

"Don't be such a wimp. Plenty of shirts down the market. What are they doing now?"

The volume and tempo of activity across the room had risen, and Gene untangled himself from Sam's numerous limbs, carefully kneeling until his eye was level with a keyhole. He drew in his breath sharply. "Blimey! My missus would never – blimey."

Sam wriggled around until he was kneeling beside him, looking through the other keyhole at the performers in the bed. In order to stay upright, he draped a too-casual arm around Gene's shoulders, and supported himself on his solid frame. "I'm not surprised. I would never, either."

"I'll make sure I don't ask," Gene said drily.

There was a moment's pause, and then Sam turned towards him. Their faces were almost touching, and Gene felt the soft breath on his cheek as his eyelids fluttered involuntarily with the other man's nearness. The wardrobe was dark and warm, and the sounds of love and lust surrounded them oppressively. He found himself anticipating an unknown something, and tensed in not entirely hostile expectation.

"We've got to get out," Sam whispered, and everydayness reasserted itself with a sneer. "They're set in for the afternoon now – I'm not staying in here with you all day."

"And how exactly do you propose to do that?" Gene snapped. "Now what the hell are you doing?" Sam was wriggling again, elbows and knees and – other things – brushing against him or jabbing into him or squeezing past him as the younger man tried to take something from his back pocket. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Got it!" Sam's eyes gleamed triumphantly in the dim light as he brandished a pen in front of Gene's bemused and still-watering eyes.

"You found your biro – well done. Now what?"

"Follow me!"

"_What?"_

But Sam was already half-way out of their prison, waving his pen and grinning like a banshee, and Gene had no choice but to follow suit, nose to tail as they scrambled from their hiding place. The occupants of the bed – apparently proponents of an esoteric form of yoga, their bodies twisted into a fantastic, eye-watering four-legged animal – looked up in shocked confusion, as Sam yelled, "Found it!" and made for the door. He grabbed at Gene's hand and dragged him down the stairs, the older man barely keeping up.

They hurtled through the hall, out of the front door, and into the garden, where Gene stopped to lean over and catch his breath.

"What the hell was that?"

Sam grinned, and for a moment Gene was aware of nothing but his sunshiny happiness. He loved Sam's grin: it was innocent, cheeky and infectious. And there were days on which the man had little enough occasion to use it, too frequently due to the behaviour and attitude of his DCI. "Escape strategy. I saw it in a film."

"What was that then? _Carry on wriggling_?"

"_Four Weddings and a Funeral_. You'll have to watch it."

"It'll be your funeral if we don't get out of here!" A semi-naked man shot through the door like a bullet from a gun, and Gene didn't wait to see if he was carrying one; he and Sam were off, tearing up the tarmac like a couple of kids playing Knock Down Ginger on the local constable.

Then they were round the corner, down the alley way, across the road to where Ray and the Cortina waited for them, and away, laughing like demented drains.

They were still laughing when they reached CID, relief exploding into unstoppable giggling as they staggered into the welcoming, untidy room, hanging onto each other for support, leaning on tables as if drunk, and hysterically, happily helpless. Following Ray into the office, they gradually became aware of their colleagues' quizzical stares.

"Well?" demanded Ray, who had maintained a dignified and somewhat disapproving silence on the journey back. "What did you get?"

New snorts of laughter were followed by Sam's gasp. "Nothing! Nothing at all."

Ray looked nonplussed, then disgusted, with that special level of disdain he reserved for Tyler alone. "What's wrong with your shirt?"

"Better get it off, Sammy boy," said Gene. "Can't have you catching cold." Obligingly, Sam removed it.

Gene caught his breath and looked away. What was going on? What was he doing, and what was this deliciously scary feeling? He thought of Sam's fingers, lacing in and out of his hair, and the heat of his body through the material of his jeans, and suddenly needed to sit down.

"Guv?" The concern in Ray's voice was edged with hardness, but it was there all the same.

Gene looked at him. "Fine – fine. Stop bloody fussing." Now he was trembling, and Sam's worried hand on his shoulder didn't help. Was that just a hint of a squeeze?

He was distracted by a flurry at the door, and Annie flew in, ran to Sam and flung her arms around him, knocking his hand away from Gene and leaving him feeling bereft and abandoned. To Gene's intense surprise, she then did exactly the same to him. "Sam – Guv! What were you thinking of, going in there when you knew they could come back at any time?"

"You questioning my decisions, Cartwright?"

Annie looked stubborn. "Well, when it puts the pair of you in danger, yes I am, sir."

Gene and Sam exchanged glances and eyebrows: Cartwright was coming on nicely. She threaded her arm around Sam's waist – they had always been open about their relationship – and exchanged a few private whispers. Gene felt a little twist in his gut. Well, it was nice while it lasted… He was surprised and disconcerted by his sense of loss.

"Er – Guv…" Annie's voice. Lucky Annie, he found himself thinking.

He moved to face her. "Cartwright."

Annie glanced at Sam in that coy way, a hangover from earlier days. "We were wondering, sir, if you'd like to come over for dinner this evening. We could discuss your – er – wardrobe experiences. Steak and chips."

"What?" He looked at Sam. A small, half-hidden smile played over the younger man's mouth, and there was promise in his eyes. Gene thought of Annie at the Martins' party and blinked. "Tonight?" he asked cautiously.

"You doing anything else?"

"No – er – no. Right." He got up and walked towards his office, acutely aware of both Sam's and Annie's eyes on him. A quick glance over his shoulder confirmed it: both were looking, and it wasn't his back they were watching. Annie – who would have thought it?

He sat down again and took a deep breath. Untried and exciting possibilities beckoned and, recalling what had already happened, he felt his stomach tingle. Smiling to himself, he poured a shot of whisky and surveyed his ragged empire with warm complacency.

If the evening turned out the way he thought it might, life could be quite interesting from now on.


End file.
